17
I'm still not altogether sure why I agreed to have the scan. I was tired, it had been a long day, and I felt so comfortable, so nurtured, I didn't want to spoil it all by having an argument.
And I really could see that Mark would be a wonderful father.
Which helped.
I suppose I'd never thought of the reality of the situation before; had only thought I'd be saddled with a child I didn't want; that I'd turn into a stressed-out single mother who tried desperately to juggle her child with a career and a string of unsuitable boyfriends.
But after that day at Mark's, after seeing what he was like, where he lived, how he lived, I could see that I wouldn't be on my own, and more than that I could see that it wouldn't have been fair to deprive him of what he so desperately wanted.
We could share a child, I started to think on the way home. Maybe Mark would have the child during the week and I'd have it on the weekends. A picture of a little girl, looking just like me, forced itself into my head. A little girl wearing those cute little OshKosh dungarees (for no child of mine would be made to wear frilly pink dresses), a little girl so sweet and good that everyone would stop to smile at us, marvel at how I, the head of London Daytime Television (if you're going to have a fantasy there's no point in being half-assed about it), managed to bring up such a beautiful well-behaved child as well.
She'd be the perfect accessory.
We'd go to the park wearing big boots and woollen hats, and handsome single men would find us irresistible. We might even have to get a dog. And maybe a holiday home on the coast somewhere. Not too far, maybe near Viv, but we could play on the beaches and spend our evenings reading Dr. Seuss in front of the fire.
I could teach her everything I know, watch her grow into a little person with her own thoughts, own opinions, and I could stand back proudly as she grew into a beautiful woman.
Hmmm. A little me is really rather enticing.
So when Mark gently suggested it might be a good idea to see a doctor and book a scan, I agreed.
What harm can it do?
Although it doesn't mean I've made a decision.
It doesn't mean I'm definitely keeping the baby.
Not definitely.
“Can you see the leg move?”
I'm lying on a table, craning my head around to see the screen, while the sonographer presses down on my stomach, keeping her eyes on the screen, stopping only to note measurements.
Mark's sitting next to me, holding my hand, which in other circumstances I might find off, but in these is enormously reassuring. We're both staring at the screen, and I don't know what the sonographer's talking about because I can't see anything at all other than a greenish tunnel, and suddenly my heart flips over and Mark and I gasp, squeezing each other's hands tightly.
“Oh my God!” we whisper in unison. “Did you see that?” And suddenly the screen becomes clear. There is a tiny leg kicking up in the air, and we follow the leg up as we start to define the shape of a baby. My baby. Our baby. A living being inside of me.
Oh my good God.
I turn quickly to Mark, who has tears in his eyes and a huge smile on his face, and we grin wordlessly at one another before turning quickly back to the screen so we don't miss anything.
“Can you see the spine?” She presses down to the left and points at the screen and I nod, a lump suddenly in my throat.
“Whoops, the baby's on the move,” the sonographer laughs, and I watch in awe as an arm stretches out and the baby arches its back.
I start to laugh. And cry.
“Don't worry,” she says, handing me a tissue from a box at her side. “First-time parents often find it a bit overwhelming. It's incredible, isn't it? That's your baby!” She smiles indulgently at us. “Everything seems to be fine. See that flickering there?”
A tiny flickering, barely noticeable.
“That's the baby's heartbeat. Nice and strong. You're thirteen weeks and four days? Five days?”
I nod. Thirteen weeks and five days exactly.
“The measurements are incredibly precise at this stage,” she says, “so the due date is . . .” She turns to check but Mark and I get there first.
“The thirty-first of October.”
“Spooky,” she says, grinning, and I don't laugh, because it is at exactly this point that I know there's no going back. No way. No how. My life, from this moment forward, is irrevocably changed.
She carries on for a while, and I try to follow the shape of the baby, but every time the screen changes all I can see are indistinct markings, and after a while I stop looking and turn to Mark.
“You okay?” he whispers, giving my hand a squeeze.
I nod. “You?”
“I think this is the greatest day of my life,” he says, smiling.
I smile back.
I don't need to tell him I feel exactly the same way.
Mark drives me home and goes into the kitchen to heat up a can of Heinz tomato soup for me (can that really be called a legitimate craving?), while I head for the wardrobe and pull out the plastic bag from Books Etc.
Page 36 of What Does My Baby Look Like Today? tells me exactly what I wanted to know.
Welcome to the second trimester! If you've had morning sickness, it should be starting to subside, and miscarriage is less of a risk.
You should see your doctor and discuss what precautionary measures you should follow to avoid infection by salmonella, listeria, etc., and what tests you'll need to take, for example, toxoplasmosis.
What's Going On with My Baby?
The vocal cords are developing, and the voice box has formed. Your baby's intestines are now coiled and contained inside the abdomen, while the liver secretes bile and the pancreas secretes insulin. And now the really exciting stuff starts! Those little fingers and toes are no longer webbed and the nail beds have begun to develop.
“What are you doing?” Mark comes in and places a mug of soup on the bedside table, then sits next to me on the bed to look at the book. We sit in silence for a while, and eventually Mark touches my arm.
“Can we talk about this now?” he says gently. I nod. “How are you feeling?”
“Scared.”
“Does that mean . . .” He pauses. “You're going to . . .” He looks up at me, eyes filled with hope. “. . . Have this baby?”
“Of course I'm going to have this baby. It's a baby! There's a baby growing inside of me, for God's sake, and I've seen it! Mark!” I look at him and catch my breath as the full realization hits me in the face. “We're going to have a baby!”
“I know,” he laughs, putting his arms around me and enveloping me in a hug so tight I practically lose my breath. “Isn't it f*cking amazing!”
Mark stays for supper. I wish I could tell you I provide him with a similar gastronomic experience to his Sunday lunch, but in the event we order in a curry from the Indian restaurant in the village. I do, however, manage to supply the mango chutney.
We talk for a long, long time. At least it feels like a long, long time, but when I eventually say goodnight and climb into bed, thoroughly exhausted, I manage to catch sight of the clock just before I fall asleep, and it's 9:22.
What did we talk about? We talked about our child. About our values. About children of friends, and what we like and dislike about their upbringing, how we would do things differently with our own.
We didn't talk about the logistics. How two people will jointly raise a child when they are not together, but really, that's no big deal. Look at the divorce statistics in this country, for heaven's sake. Isn't it one in three? Or maybe even higher. It's just as normal for children to grow up in one-parent families, and at least our child won't be subjected to any bitterness or acrimony between its parents, because we were never together in the first place. Well. Barely.
Mark can fulfill his dream of being a father and I can carry on with my career just as I was before.
“The only thing is,” I said, when we'd exhausted our dreams, “how the hell are we supposed to tell everyone at work?”
“Ah yes. That had crossed my mind.” Mark sighed.
“I told Mike Jones I was pregnant just to see his reaction and he practically had heart failure in front of me.”
“What?” Mark was horrified. “You told him?”
“Don't worry. He thought I was joking. I just wanted to test him, and the result wasn't what I wanted to hear.”
“So don't tell anyone.”
“Oh, be serious. You think that somehow they won't notice?”
He shrugged. “You don't have to tell anyone yet. You're not showing, and we can work out the best way to tell people in a few weeks.”
“So you're okay about them knowing it's your baby?” I was flabbergasted.
“I want the whole bloody world to know it's my baby! Especially when everyone knew Julia and I were trying and presumed it was my fault when nothing happened. I don't just want to tell them, I want to commission a television series about it.”
“Good idea,” I mused. “But not great. Surely a whole series is just a touch over the top? How about a short thirty-second ad to go out just after Coronation Street for a week? That's much more low-key.”
He smiled, but his attention was elsewhere and I knew what he was thinking.
“Mark? What's the matter? It's Julia, isn't it?”
He smiled sadly. “I've been so excited I haven't even thought about Julia in all this. And I suppose if it isn't me, then it must be her, but even if there's nothing wrong at all, how in the hell is she going to take this?”
“Mark, if no one else is going to know for a while, then Julia doesn't need to know either. But when we do start telling people, make sure you tell her first. I can't imagine anything worse than Julia hearing this from someone else.”
“I know,” he said, nodding, still thinking about her pain. “I know I'll have to tell her myself.”
I am a woman obsessed.
I am also a woman who is slowly losing her mind.
I have gone from pretending this baby never existed to longing for my belly to show, longing to be able to tell people that no, I'm not just fat, I'm actually pregnant.
I'm still being careful at work, careful to wear big, baggy clothes to disguise my ever-growing stomach, but I'm so desperate to talk about it, for people to know, I'm accosting strangers in order to share my good news.
“Excuse me? Do you have this sweater in a large because I'm nearly four months pregnant and nothing's going to be fitting me soon?”
“Hello? You don't know me, but my name's Maeve Robertson and I'm a friend of Stella Lord. She recommended I call you because the central heating's not working properly and I'm four months pregnant and for some reason I'm getting really cold so do you think you could send a plumber around today?”
“I'll have avocado, crabsticks, and coronation chicken on granary please. I know it sounds really strange but I'm four and a half months pregnant and I'm desperately craving coronation chicken but it could be worse, ha ha. At least I'm not craving anything weird like soil. Do you have any kids yourself?”
“You look like you're just about fully cooked! How many weeks are you? Thirty-six? You poor thing. Is this your first? I'm only twenty-two weeks and I'm completely shattered so I can't imagine how you must be feeling.”
I've resisted the urge to buy maternity clothes for ages, but now I can't resist it anymore. I did actually drive up to Formes at sixteen weeks. I walked in, looked around, and wondered why everyone in there was super-skinny and the sales assistants had to give them cushions to shove under their sweaters to simulate pregnancy.
“Are any of these women actually pregnant?” I whispered to one of the younger shop assistants.
“Oh yes,” she whispered back. “I think a lot of our ladies like to come in very early on. Wearing maternity clothes is often the first real sign of pregnancy and they can't wait to show it off.”
I turned and saw exactly what she meant, as a woman with model proportions idly flicked through the racks, wearing an empire-line smock that clearly had more space underneath it than Tower Bridge.
“Would you like to try anything on?” the assistant said, reaching behind the till. “We have cushions if you like.”
“I'm fine,” I said with a condescending smile as I headed toward the door, but I spent the journey home kicking myself. Me and my bloody pride. I was dying to try everything on.
Everyone I reveal my pregnancy to is so kind, which makes it bizarre not to be able to reveal it at work, where everyone treats me as they always did. At work I'm still the same old Maeve Robertson. Only fatter. And more forgetful.
I can't tell which is worrying me more: the fact that my memory has gone absent without leave or that my waist has disappeared.
Of course no one would tell me I've put on weight, and I don't think anyone's guessed yet, but I'm definitely aware that, walking through a crowded canteen at one o'clock, I don't get anything like the admiring glances I did before.
“Do you swear I don't look enormous?” I whisper to Stella, as a floor manager on the breakfast show walks past and smiles at me, all hint of flirtation very much gone.
I want her to say I don't look fat, I look pregnant. I want her to validate me. I want her to give me permission to tell everyone.
“I swear you just look voluptuous and gorgeous.”
“So you can't see my bump?” I stick my stomach out, longing for her to say she can see my bump.
“That's no baby,” she laughs. “That's just a brie and onion baguette and a double-decker.” I laugh too. Even though it isn't the right answer.
“Are you sure I don't look enormous?” I say to Mark, lying on his sofa after we've watched the video of Lord Winston's The Human Body, marveling at the footage of a baby when it's still inside the mother.
It's a Sunday. We spend Sundays together now, Mark and I, and occasionally a couple of evenings during the week as well. But Sundays are a regular routine: I drive over to his house, he cooks a delicious meal, and I lounge about all day doing absolutely f*ck all while he runs around like a headless chicken making sure the mother of his child is happy.
It's sheer and utter bliss.
“Do you want a Bounty?” he asks, midway through the afternoon.
“Mmm,” I groan luxuriously from the comfort of my cushions.
“Right.” He flings on his jacket. “I'm just popping out to the garage. Anything else you need?”
“I wouldn't mind some coronation chicken.”
“You're still hungry after the roast beef?” Aghast.
“Not hungry. Just, you know. A bit peckish.”
“We've got chicken and mayonnaise. I'll see if I can get some curry powder.”
“Great. Thanks.” I've already switched my focus back to the television set, usually a video Mark will have got out for the afternoon, and thankfully we both share the same cheesy taste in old films. It's a Wonderful Life; Harvey; Some Like It Hot; Gone With the Wind. Many's the Sunday we've lost ourselves in a fantasy world of an age gone by. The last couple of weeks I've stayed the night.
Don't be ridiculous.
In the guest room of course.
And that is the most extraordinary thing. Aside from the fact that I am carrying his child, I cannot believe that Mark and I ever had sex. In fact, even though I am carrying his child there are times when I think that perhaps it was an immaculate conception and that I simply dreamed that whole night in Soho.
I even had to ask Stella, just to be on the safe side. Was I actually there?
Mark has become my best friend. He is the first person I turn to when I want to share my news, or have a night out, or just have a laugh. He's always there for me; always steady, reliable, secure. He makes me feel safe, and comforted, and loved. And I mean that in a platonic sense.
Because he's the last person in the world I could ever fancy.
I know I fancied him that night. I have a vague memory of the sex being fantastic, but I still can't quite believe that that was Mark. Mark. The same Mark that's sitting opposite me draining a can of Coke and emitting indecently loud burps every few seconds.
“You're revolting.” I'm smiling.
“God, I know.” He makes a face. “Lawyers are such pigs, aren't they?”
“Not all lawyers. Just you.”
Mark burps particularly loudly and grins. “You could have chosen any man to be the father of your baby, but you chose me.”
“Trust me,” I say. “If I had to make my choice all over again, it would be a very different story.”
But of course it wouldn't be, because, while I don't fancy him in the slightest, he has become, other than Viv, my most favorite person in the whole world, and I cannot think of a better person to be raising my child with. I love the idea that my child will be half mine and half Mark's. To be honest I can't think of a better combination. Other than me and Steve McQueen of course. And that, clearly, is not in the cards.
“You know what you are?” I say, later that afternoon, as Mark sits on the floor tinkering with some Victorian lamps we picked up at a garage sale this morning. (A 6 A.M. start. I wouldn't recommend it.) “You're the brother I never had.”
Mark makes a face. “Now that really is sick. Disgusting. You're accusing me of incest.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I mean just in terms of us. Our relationship. I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable with anyone other than my family. That's what I meant. You know you're my best friend.” I'm not sure quite what's come over me, because spontaneous outbursts of affection are really not my style, but I don't think I ever really knew how important it was to have someone before.
And I don't mean an “other half.” I just mean someone to share things with. Someone like a best friend. Or a brother. Someone like Mark.
Mark stops tinkering and smiles at me. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”
“Shit,” I mumble, opening Marie Claire and pretending to be immediately engrossed in the film reviews, the embarrassment of having been so open starting to hit. “I didn't mean it.”
“Yes, you did. And thank you. That's lovely to hear, and just for the record I feel exactly the same about you.”
“I'm the brother you never had?”
“No. You're the pain in the arse little sister I never wanted. Ouch.” I hit him over the head with the rolled-up Marie Claire. And then he sits back and looks at me thoughtfully. “Seriously, Maeve. You've really changed since you became pregnant.”
I snort. “Because you knew me so well before.”
“I didn't have to. I only had to look at you to see how hard you were. You're much softer. More vulnerable. If you pushed me I might say you're a much nicer person.”
“Uh-oh.” I make a face, turning back to the magazine and flicking. “I'm not sure that's such a good thing. No one's frightened of me at work anymore.”
And although the fact that I don't seem to wield the same power at work bothers me ever so slightly, secretly I like what Mark has just said. I like the way he makes me feel.
Secretly I'm very, very pleased.